


Coherence

by ladygrange



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: .........sometimes.........., Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, a forgotten account with accumulated interest, about opening the notebook, and other times!, and there it will all be, didion is right about bankrupt mornings, done the work, even larger forests, i think it must be enough to have written, imagination engaged, i’d like to scrub my self raw of its shame, large houses, mind agile, move only in least resistance, oh other times, paid passage back to the world out there, places where i shrink and seize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/pseuds/ladygrange
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Coherence

_ Plumpton Place - February 27, 1974 _

Beige telephone cord twists, coils, stretches around the open refrigerator door. Her cheeks, one cinching the receiver against her shoulder, chill along with her hands. Sad, wilting parsley hangs limp and accusatory. It suggests that she should’ve used it when she’d been able. Weeks ago now, she thinks, frowning. 

“Darling,” Jimmy pulls her back from the herb. “Are you still there?”

She clears her throat. “Yes, sorry. Got distracted. I’ll tell you again, there’s still plenty of time to get the overdubs finished.”

Jimmy makes a displeased noise. She imagines his nose scrunched, like he’d bitten off that parsley. Or a cocktail onion. Small, translucent orbs floating in solution. Rather stomach turning, she thinks. 

Her stomach growls traitorously at the sight of a few measly boiled potatoes. How long they’d been languishing on the shelf, she doesn’t want to know. Instead, she picks up on Jimmy’s voice.

“…Course there’s the jam pieces, good ones I think. Just can’t figure out what to do with other ideas. Some of it’s in my mind, some on tape.”

“You’ve always done good work at Headley,” she says, matter of fact. “No reason a few bumps in the road should deter you.”

There’s a weighted pause while she reaches for a pint of milk. 

“Come down, my darling.”

She makes a disgusted face at the sour smell wafting from the open spout. “God, no.”

That draws a laugh from Jimmy. “No need to sound so disturbed.”

“You’ll only repeat the same thing we’ve been discussing these last twenty minutes, Jimmy,”

“But, Em –”

She waves a hand, though he can’t see it. “Remember that you  _ can _ smooth out what needs smoothing at Olympic. Keith is always very efficient. Aren’t you planning sometime in June?” 

“Hmm.” 

Her gaze passes over a few cans of Trappist beer Jimmy had brought from Belgium some time ago. Not appealing on an empty stomach. 

“As for the effects. You can plug straight into the desk and triple track just like with “Black Dog” and you have that beautiful Odyssey synthesizer  _ and _ the Leslie. All very exciting. Plenty of options. You do know all this, Jimmy. And in case you’re trying to pull something, understand I know where you live.”

“I’m asking you, my darling,” Jimmy says, as though that should be enough.

“You know why I can’t do that,” she replies. 

A few hunks of parmesan, scraped down to their rinds, jostle around in the drawer she inspects.

“Alright then.” Jimmy’s tone does not budge. “Consider that we haven’t been at Plumpton together for, let’s see, three and a half weeks, is it?”

“Yes,” she agrees, if grudgingly. 

“Almost a month. You’ve been working and I’ve been working. Which means the pilot light is surely acting up again, the fridge is full of things gone off, and judging from that last phone call, after a few missed ones, you’re exhausted.”

She lets the refrigerator door fall closed. They had been out of sync lately. “Your point, Jimmy?”

“My point,” his tone gentles. Soothes, pulls her into a familiar cadence. “Is that I’m asking you.”

She chews her lip. He’s right. There’s nothing, no promising carton of eggs or frozen loaf of bread. The pantry had already proven itself similarly barren. The thought of seeing him spreads warmth in her cheeks.

“You’re asking me.” She repeats. Not exactly a question. But Jimmy hums nonetheless. 

“Yes, my darling. Come down. The fires are laid, and there’s food, too. Have a listen in the mobile, maybe. Come and sleep with me.”

She chuckles warmly into the receiver. “Alright, I’ll come and sleep with you.”

_ Headley Grange  _

Silver and polished and reflective in a distorted way, the Airstream turned Lane Mobile Studio sits outside Headley Grange. Hitched in stark contrast to an antique, beat up Range Rover. Ron Nevison, their engineer this round, lounges on one side with a cigarette burning in his mouth. He gives her a bored wave. They must be having a break. Which explains the quiet, she thinks, passing over gravel and in the shadow of the house.

Headley, stout and all-purpose. Resolute in its brick and windows evenly ordered. Only the door, like a slice of sky, breaks the steadfast structure. She passes through the arch and into the antechamber, coats hung three, four deep on the hooks. Muddied wellies tip over each other on the floor. 

She hears his playing from down the corridor. 

Cables and cords vein the floor and hook into amps and microphones. Every instrument abandoned and lying still, waiting for the band. The drawing room door is thrown wide but Jimmy is seated against the windows. A fire roars beside him. Teacups gather on the table before him as an audience. She leans against the doorframe and contemplates his bare feet, one bobbing gently in unhemmed blue jeans, shirtsleeves rolled up. 

Jimmy rocks his shoulders in time. Head bent low, intent - in conversation with sound. On the sway back, she catches his eyes closed. Dark hair obscures him a moment later. Middle finger laid gently, quickly, over the frets, removed in a flash. Harmonics bright and clear before they mix into his fingerpicking, almost as though there were multiple guitars in the room. She smiles a little; a cross between Seeger and Scruggs and total incompetence, he likes to call it. Though the twist in his wrist says otherwise. It speaks of concentration, of time spent working. 

As does the tape recorder he clicks off a moment later. A note scribbled to himself on a scrap of paper. 

She taps a knuckle on the wooden frame. “Have you considered a career in music? Might be a good opportunity for you.”

“Emmaline.” Something like relief marks his voice.

He props the guitar on the arm of the couch and takes the finger plectrums off. They stand like miniature crowns on the table. 

“Yes,” she says as she goes to him. “Though I hear the business can be ruthless, with some practice, you just might succeed.” 

Jimmy manages a weak smile. She sits beside him and chooses the cup with steam still curling above its lip. Jimmy’s added a splash of milk. He watches her sip, not looking her in the eye though she tries to catch his gaze.

“I thought you’d be longer,” he says, reaching for her knee, for a frayed thread on her trousers.

She hums and takes a bite of biscuit laid on a saucer. “I’ve come for a sleep.” 

Jimmy laughs faintly and leans to cup her face, kiss the end of her nose. Worry unfolds in her shoulders. He still won’t meet her eyes, even when she presses her mouth to the fleshy mound beneath his thumb. 

“Why are you alone in here?” she asks gently. “Are the others in the village?”

“For a bit, yeah.” 

She turns his collar back down. For a long, silent moment of warming by the fire, she watches his eyes follow her munching on digestives. Then back to that loose thread. Expression perched frequently on the edge of speech before he decides on silence. 

Something’s at him, she thinks. Then wishes for an irrational moment that she had not come, or knew just what it was, or had the key to unlock each suspected problem. Perhaps something has happened with Swan Song, with all those contractual obligations. Or a problem has arisen with the recording. Something.

Immersed in her thoughts, nibbling in worry, she stares into her lap. At tea the color of a brown bag. She slips briefly into her own heavy lids and the struggle not to sink into the cushions of the couch. Into sleep. 

A car door slams outside, startling them both, making them chuckle together. Jimmy takes her free hand and with a frown, he brushes crumbs away and chafes it. She realizes how cold her skin must be just as he speaks, gaze fixed on her fingers.

“Will you come upstairs with me?”

She nods. Jimmy leads her there, each step up and she broods over that certain set to his jaw, his hand tight over hers. Like she might slip out if he wasn’t careful. The heavy door to his bedroom closes behind her. 

Jimmy takes her hair down at once. Burrows close.

“Missed you,” he says quietly, face hidden.

A fist of unease, of her own potential inadequacy, grips her. The lag from Ireland, sessions with Thin Lizzy, must contribute. Cold gales that whistled through her room each night. Even a stomachful of bitters hadn’t pushed her to sleep. She woke each morning with accumulated exhaustion. Heaped on so heavy, heavier than all that rain. It threatens to bury her attention. It has been so long since she’s slept with him. Too long. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, hm?” she says into his hair. “On the phone. I would’ve been down even quicker.”

“Dunno.”

“Why don’t you know?” she whispers. Like they might be sharing a secret, overheard at any minute. 

A smile curves on her neck, below her ear. A kiss follows. Jimmy, content with the simple act, spreads his mouth to the wool edge of her sweater. 

“Jimmy...” she sighs, head tipping back at the pleasure of his hands against her skin, drawing clothes away. 

He kisses below her chin in answer. Looks at her then, a flash of want and something held deeper. Held back from speech. 

“Emmaline.”

“Yes,” she says thickly. “What is it?”

His eyes dart across her shoulders and chest and somewhere near the carpet’s border. Needing something. She molds herself to his torso, shirt soft on her nakedness, and untucks him from the back of his blue jeans. Unbuttons, unzips, watches his breathing unravel when she cups his growing erection. Chest bloomed pinkish and hot. His arms band tight around her waist. 

“What is it?” she asks again, buried in his hair. 

Jimmy makes a defenseless little sound in response. She abandons the question at his mouth trailing the slope of her breast to kiss and suckle the tip. Until each nipple is saliva-slick and hard. Heat melts creamy between her legs. 

Still, she wonders, what he could be thinking. Why he won’t meet her eyes for more than a searing slip of a second. Expression burning with emotion as he stands naked before her. She’s bowed backward before she can follow that thought. 

Jimmy spreads her thighs. She shivers and presses closer. Offers him kisses along the throat. Skin hot on her lips, the head of his cock slipping inside. She wraps his slender hips loosely in her legs. Takes him inside and within seconds, he’s got that look. Lips parted, almost agonized. Rhythm jagged. 

She won’t come this way. And he’s too far gone to facilitate her. But it doesn’t matter. In his final, devouring thrusts, Jimmy presses her name against her neck. Fits himself as deep as he can, and finds release, helplessly stiff and panting. She tries to hold him in the wake of such ferocious pleasure but he’s out of her arms too fast. 

“Jimmy, hang on, there’s no need to –” 

The breath dries up in her throat.

Jimmy licks at the open lips of her sex. At his ejaculate seeping from her. At the beginning swell of her clit. Her arousal mixes with his spit and semen to slick the way for his fingers. They curl up and up and up, winding her into wordless noises. Into the quick, sweet shock of orgasm. 

She raises her head on shaky muscles and tries to get her bearings. Her heart’s erratic, his mouth still cradling the final pulses of her pleasure into a new, pain-tinged climax. A new finger added inside her as she convulses.

She tries his name, grips his hair, thinks it can’t possibly roll on again. But it does. And Jimmy groans into her wetness until she subsides. Laps gently at her clit.

“Can’t….” She’s hoarse and about to come again over his rasping tongue. “Please, please…”

Her hips flinch from his final kisses. Jimmy nuzzles his face into her thigh. He’s prickly from lack of a shave. A few days at least. A few kisses to that trembling part of her before he crawls up. Her tongue unsticks wetly from the roof of her mouth, heavy and like she hasn’t spoken for awhile.

Jimmy braces himself above her, dark hair dangling between them, lips glossy and plump. From her, she thinks, a swoop in her chest with the thought. He searches her expression with those same, burning eyes. 

She can’t lay hands on her words. So she wraps her arms and legs around him - waist and shoulders circled so that he rests at her neck with a trembling sigh. Long hair trails over her shoulders onto the covers. She presses kisses into his hair, nuzzles her face into his scent. 

“Take a walk with me.” 

Her words surprise her, voice rising soft but firm from the mix of his breathing and the crackle of the fire.

Rest will not happen here, she knows it in her gut. Not with him tense in her arms and backed into his thoughts. It’s brisk outside. Something must come of that cool, sharp weather, she hopes, waiting for Jimmy to respond. 

He nods against her. “Alright.”

White, frothy breath plumes from their faces only to dissolve in an instant. Jimmy’s had her arm tucked against his side since they stepped from Headley. Afternoon sun burns off most glittering traces of frost and drifts of snow. They follow a worn, narrow trail. Leafless branches above them cut against the pale shy. The smallest hint of a breeze whistles past. 

Bundled as they are, quiet as they’ve been, she tries to sift through her own cotton-stuffed lethargy.  _ What _ , she repeats to herself, could be going through his mind? Why can’t she settle on a good inroad of words? The questions bumble around her mind with increasing confusion - a looping mantra. Every opportunity to speak filters itself through the beginnings of a stifled anxiety. She wishes he’d let go.

Instead, Jimmy cleaves her to his side, with restless looks at her face every now and again. And while he’d shortened his long stride at first, now she tires at his pace. The mantra won’t rest.

They’re deep enough in the woods to be surrounded by trees and dormant bracken. Fallen limbs and a few oaks lay giant on the forest floor. She extracts herself from Jimmy, though he gives her a questioning look.

She’s a few steps on the trunk of a fallen tree before a hidden icy patch takes her down. No grace in the fall. Only her surprised sound – a mix of laughter and embarrassment. Legs splayed awkwardly on the ground. 

Jimmy’s at her side in an instant. Before she can regain equilibrium.

“Are you hurt, Emma?” 

She shakes her head. A weird giddiness bubbles in her throat and makes her giggle at her own ridiculousness.

“No, just took me by surprise is all.”

Jimmy takes her palms and inspects the scraped skin. Then back to her face with increasing concern. She bites her lip to contain herself. 

“S-sorry,” she manages as Jimmy hauls her upright. Holds her so tightly. 

The loopiness settles at his expression. 

“You’re hurt, darling, let’s go back.”

“Jimmy,” she tries to sound light, “I really –”

“No, you thought it was funny, you thought it was –” Jimmy breaks off, on the verge of something like terror, like blown panic. 

“You could hurt yourself, Emma. Hurt yourself badly. It’s fucking freezing out here, you could’ve fallen in water, or…” At a loss, Jimmy shakes her a bit. “Why would you risk that?”

She speaks loud above the beginnings of that panic. “I’m not hurt, Jimmy. It was only an accident.”

She pries his hands off her arms, one at a time, keeping his gaze. Jimmy doesn’t hear her, though she repeats herself. He attempts to take her in his arms again. But there’s something feral about his grip. She’ll go mad that way. So, she steps back, puts a measure of distance between them. Jimmy looks forlorn.

She reaches in, eyes closed, for tenderness that seems lost. Or misplaced perhaps. She must relocate it. A chilly breeze ruffles her hair and she looks at Jimmy. His cheeks still sport a scald of red. Hair frazzled around his face.

“Tell me,” she says evenly. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“He wants to leave,” Jimmy speaks too fast, like he wants to fling words out of reach. “Quit the group.” 

“Bring me with you, Jimmy. Who does?”

“John wants to leave. Winchester Cathedral offered him a position, he’s keen to take it apparently. Peter talked to him, I’ve…” 

Jimmy drifts off with a crimped expression. He’s looking somewhere to the left. She follows him.

“You’ve what? Have you two spoken?”

A curt shake tells her no. But this is the spot, the bruise, the ache, the unresolved, the lingering on until he just can’t take it anymore. 

“Why haven’t you spoken?”

Jimmy pulls his body in – a retreat. Three fingers of one hand stacked and rolling thumb and forefinger together, as though he’s trying to smooth out some rough surface.

“Do you have some idea?” she ventures after a moment. “Some reason he might have. He’s generally quite reasonable.”

Jimmy looks stung at her words. It makes her heart clump painfully in her chest. Exhaustion seeps from her heels to the base of her neck. With a grip on her neck, she kneads out the soreness, her eyes close again. She tries again.

“It’s so still here,” she says softly. Almost a whisper. “Feels like we’re the only ones who’ve gone this way for quite some time. Did I ever tell you? As a child I once wandered into the woods by myself. Every tree, every bit of brush seemed terribly enchanting at the time.” Her lips turn up. “Though I suppose that’s the impetus for every children’s story. No bear got me then.” She looks at him now with a fresh steadiness. “And nothing will get you now for telling me what you’re thinking of, what bears down so bad. I am here with you. Surely you must know that.”

Jimmy drinks her words carefully, her expression, her voice molds calm. Her eyes never waver; this is her patience with him. The tight lines on his face soften. Then, unexpectedly, Jimmy begins unbuttoning his coat. 

“Come here,” he says, soft and quiet when he’s finished. “Come here, Emmaline.”

Tentative relief pours through her nerve endings. Jimmy takes her between the open sides of his coat and wraps them around her back. A makeshift cocoon. One of his hands takes a post at the aching back of her neck. Strong, knowing fingers massage the lingering discomfort. It grips her from within, how warm he is, a familiar heart beats next to hers. The hollow of his throat pulses at her lips, a tuft of chest hair peeks from his button down. She breathes deep and steady.

Her hands rove along his back in a slow rhythm. They bid him try again. 

Jimmy lays his cheek at the top of her head. A wide current of silence surrounds them. Filled with thinking and the weight of thinking and the anticipation, the rich possibility, of words afterward. 

“It’ll be the tenth tour in January,” Jimmy says, jaw moving against her head. “The tenth in America, around thirty gigs planned. Peter’s added all this new security. He’s gotten wind of some death threats, and then there’s been riots. He wants at least two guards at each door.”

“Yes,” she links her hands round his waist. “Go on.”

“You know we haven’t stopped touring since the beginning? Baffles me at times to think about that. Anyway, this is the first year we’ve had off and…”

“You think the tours are getting to him,” she finishes.

Jimmy blows out a breath and starts sifting her hair through his fingers. Chocolate colored locks fall in silky whispers before he picks them up again.

“The road is exhausting, always has been. Bit restrictive in ways. Now we’ve got Swan Song looming large. I’d like to get this LP squared away and play it, you know, get the live feedback.”

“I know.” And she does.

His meaning renders before her. Stress breaks, cracks, slivers down what would be unified and sensible. Paranoia often attends this dissolution. 

“How to sort this out,” Jimmy says.

A quiet desperation tethers his voice low. Body grown tense. She presses her hands firmly to his back, till his belly rises even against her. Jimmy nuzzles his cheek into her hair.

“You’ll get nothing sorted if you avoid John,” she offers gently.

“I’m not avoiding him.” Jimmy sounds mildly offended. “I want to make music is all. Then play it to people. What we’ve always done.”

“Yes, of course you do, Jimmy.” She leans back to look at him. Finds his eyes watchful, attentive. She continues with the hope of clarity. “You adore the process of building songs,  _ especially  _ with those who inspire you. Not that you need to be told how you feel, just that there would be no performance without the recording. In studios or houses or whatever godforsaken place you drag them to.” That elicits a smile from him. “The two enrich each other.”

“A group effort,” Jimmy says thoughtfully.

“Mmm,” she presses her mouth to that little hollow at his throat. “And the clavinent I spotted in the house?” 

She struggles to dredge up her memory. Some distant, fuzzy phone call with Jimmy, made only a week ago. She nuzzles against him for warmth. 

“Wasn’t there a track you were excited about? A chance to play around with some different structures? You and John love those.”

Jimmy nods. “Yes, yes, some bits. Odds and ends, really. John’s calling it “In the Morning” but that’s tentative, you know that sort of thing changes a lot. Robert usually gets the track before working out the lyrics. Obviously we’ve....Christ I dunno...”

He gives her an alert pause. Then pulls back some inches with an intent look, as though hearing notes in his head.

“It is a unique one. Lots of dynamics.”

“Yes,” she nods. “That’s always been promising for you.”

“I’ve got some taped bits that I could play for him, work out the time signatures.”

She raises her brows, happiness strong and surging and true when his cheeks rise with a smile. 

“So there are time signatures, hm?” she asks. “Plural?”

“It could be good.”

“It  _ will _ be good.” 

Jimmy holds her gaze, something spirited there. “Yes, it’ll be good to work.”

Her smile breaks through her voice. “Good.”

He grins as he takes her in. “Will you come to the mobile for a bit? Have a listen?”

Red rubied, cherry hued, can still cold between her hands, she takes a sip of Coke while the track plays through her headphones. The beat is infectious. Jimmy’s fingers tap along the edge of the mixing desk. Her chair bobs and swivels in time.

Of course, the quality of the mobile studio doesn’t hurt. She’s especially taken with the Studer and Revox tape decks matched perfectly to the desk’s sixteen track capabilities. The fidelity can’t be matched.

She savors another swallow as the song finishes. Jimmy’s sat expectantly, legs crossed, one ear out of his headphones. She bumps their knees together with a conspiratory smile. 

The door bursts open.

“Emma, dear,” Robert proclaims with a wide grin. “Saw your car, knew you’d be here.”

“Nothing gets past you, Rob,” she teases, accepting the peck he gives her cheek.

“Where have you been? How’s Ireland? Jimmy said you were working with Lynott.” 

He plucks the Coke from her hands then looks mortally wounded when she snatches it back.

“Things went well in Ireland. I’ve just been at Plumpton before I came down here, and shouldn’t you drink hot water and honey?”

“Did have the flu once or twice.” He grins and shouts outside. “Bonz, get in here.”

Before she knows it, five people are crammed into the Airstream. Bonzo and Robert recount a story involving farm animals and firecrackers. Inside the house, on the top floor. While they set off the firecrackers out the window. Jonesy leans against the wall with an amused expression.

Jimmy at least has the decency to look sheepish. “I think we might’ve scared any neighbors more than the animals.”

“And where are the poor things now?” she asks with alarm.

“Safe and sound,” Bonzo interjects. “Walked ‘em back to a pasture that night.”

She purses her lips at the guilty looks they give each other. “Highly suspect.”

“Did you listen to anything good in here, Emma?” Jonesy asks, a needed voice of reason.

She smiles at Jimmy. “I think so. But I do know you lazy boys need to get back to work. So I should be going.”

“Stay for a sec.” Robert thieves her Coke once again. “Come inside and have supper.”

“I’ll join you, my darling. We’ll head to Plumpton after,” Jimmy says. “Let me finish up in here.”

She glances between Jimmy and Jonesy and nods. Robert ushers her outside with the promise to replace her drink. Bonzo follows them to the kitchen. To unfiltered laughter and plenty of food.

_ Plumpton Place _

Blue bird shell, baby blue, powder blush of a blue sheet mixes with Jimmy’s black hair. Shapes lovingly around his body. Clings to skin still a bit damp from the bath. 

She knees her way onto the solid, carved bed and unscrews the cap to lip balm. Jimmy sits up.

“Do you remember when we first moved to Pangbourne?”

Crinkles form outside his eyes. “Like a norseman’s funeral, my darling. Must have taken that lady years to collect so many flowers.”

She applies a swipe of balm to his chapped lips. “I thought they’d cover the Thames from side to side when we threw them out.”

Jimmy lets her finish before he speaks. “What made you think of it?”

She caps the container and shrugs. “You know how thoughts can materialize like that.”

Jimmy brushes her hair from her naked shoulders. “Yes, strange how that happens.”

With both his hands combing from her scalp to the ends of her hair, she quickly turns to melted butter. Jimmy looks delighted at the drying strands. 

“Will you tell me?” she murmurs, lazy and soft in his lap. “Did you get things sorted?”

Jimmy rubs his nose to hers. “Should be alright. He liked the tapes I played.”

“Mmm, I’m glad.”

Jimmy brushes a finger over her distended nipple. Makes her shift and shiver in his lap. Hungry for him in the lush comforter and covers. His erection stiff and velvety and very hot in her hands. It pulses when she pesters the little opening at his tip. So close to her curls, the flesh underneath already slick for him. For that penetration.

“Use it,” Jimmy urges in a lust-thick voice. “On your clit, my love.”

Her breath shudders at the sweet contact to her clitoris, slipping this way and that against the head of his cock. Jimmy groans. Arousal trickles out and wets his shaft. 

“You’re getting so hard, Jimmy,” she sighs in his ear. 

One of his arms wraps around her waist and positions her. She nibbles and nips and gets to the business of nuzzling him while he sinks in a bare inch. Just coating himself, teasing them both another few inches. 

Then all of him and all at once. 

With one nipple drawn into his mouth, Jimmy encourages her to move. Sinuous glides of her hips. A little ache when she sinks down, her curls crushed against the root of his cock. Pleasure mounts and she makes a broken sound. It prompts Jimmy to clasp her face in his hands. 

“Are you coming, darling?” 

She nods tearfully, so full of him, inner muscles rippling. His thumbs swipe moisture from her cheeks. 

“Good, that’s good, my sweet girl.” 

He tugs her head to his shoulder and rocks to and fro. Everything slicking, tumbling, trembling together. 

She cries out. Her fists dig into his back and she comes a minute later with her face buried in his dark hair. Clamped hard around his cock. Body deliciously slack when orgasm fades. She licks happily at the skin beneath his ear while Jimmy clutches her bottom to keep her still for each spurt of his seed. 

Then down to the covers and pillows. The soft lull of his voice invites her to sleep.

Black onyx of a night encloses them. Luminous, vibrant, shimmering with the awareness of Jimmy’s hands on her hips. To tug them up while her chest rests docile in the covers. Face down in the pillow and her own hair.

He’s already had her mouth. His taste lingers thick at the back of her tongue. But that was earlier, when he’d woken her with gentle kisses. 

Now, Jimmy probes slick, weeping folds of skin that arch and bow to his touch. He lays himself flush to her back and tucks his mouth to the bend of her neck. Bites down, and at the same time, buries himself to the hilt. She makes a hoarse sound, fisting the covers.

With long, slow movements, he searches for the opening of her cervix. Thrusts in a shallow way until she’s sobbing. Coming. 

Orgasm grips her so hard she’s left twitching on the bed. Jimmy’s final thrusts squelch in her wetness, though he hasn’t come yet. Still hard inside her.

He withdraws from the wet clutch of her orgasm and rolls her over. Then, next she knows in that velvet dark, his thumbs part her sex, to open her, to lick her inner lips and suck at her swollen clit; exposed and pink on his mouth. Soft black hair drapes over her quivering thighs. Deft fingers curl and glide to feel her clench. Hear her whine his name low as Jimmy pulls another orgasm from her, unhinging her easily with his touch.

His mouth greets hers with immeasurable care. As though he has all the time in the world to sip kisses from her, play with her tongue. Kiss each side of her neck and bite low, salve sweetly.

Pleasurably muddled from coming, she lets him position her as he likes. With her knees creased over his shoulders, she’s vividly aware of how he thrusts strong and deep each time. How his belly slides against hers. Her eyes fill. 

Jimmy reads her expression and slows, cups her cheek. “Does it hurt you, Emmaline?”

“N-no.” She turns her face into his palm. Needing shelter. 

“Do you want more?”

She nods helplessly. Jimmy kisses her exposed cheek, licks the salty skin. Continues until she milks him with her climax. Cock fitted snug, Jimmy comes a second later. Locked from head to toe. Semen dribbles from her sex. She pets his dark hair, heart subsiding, eyes adjusting to the room. To his face next to her.

Jimmy gathers her up under the blankets. Intimacy colors his eyes deep and warm. The knowing and the seeing and the surety of both:  _ Yes, yes it’s you. Just as it should be.  _


End file.
